


I'll Be Home for Christmas

by dandalfthedisco



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: Christmas, Fluff, M/M, SO MUCH FLUFF
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-17
Updated: 2016-12-17
Packaged: 2018-09-09 08:03:34
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 710
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8883049
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dandalfthedisco/pseuds/dandalfthedisco
Summary: It’s Christmas Eve, and Eames is alone. Until he's not.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [RighteousHate](https://archiveofourown.org/users/RighteousHate/gifts).



> For RH, who passed her Exam of Death and wanted bubble bath fic. Merry Christmas, darling. ♥
> 
> Corinne gets all the credit for this thing being at all legible. She is MAGIC.

It’s Christmas Eve, and Eames is alone.

It’s not _entirely_ by choice – Arthur left six days ago to run point on a job with a ridiculously tight schedule (but a correspondingly enormous payout), and Eames has so many open arrest warrants in Paraguay that Arthur didn’t want him to come along, not even using an alias. Staying alone in their Paris apartment for a week and a half was his choice, though, since the alternative was going to Wiltshire, and Eames would rather eat his own spleen than spend the holidays with his family.

He’s immersed in a bath, feeling sorry for himself, drinking champagne out of a pint glass and idly playing with the bubbles covering the water’s surface when he hears someone rattling the front door. He freezes, the hand holding his glass halfway to his lips. There’s silence for a few seconds, followed the sound of the door opening.

He swears and clambers out of the tub, somehow managing to not break his neck in the process, and mentally runs through the list of people he’s recently pissed off enough to warrant an assassination attempt on Christmas Eve. He sets his glass on the countertop and doesn’t bother drying himself off (or putting on clothes) before retrieving a loaded pistol from its hiding place in the towel drawer, taking the safety off, and opening the bathroom door as quietly as he can.

He walks through the hallway toward the soft clunking noises, and really, _really_ hopes that whoever is coming for him won’t be facing him when he turns the corner. He takes a steadying breath and lets it out slowly, gets a better grip on the gun, turns the corner and sees…

Arthur.

Arthur, toeing his shoes off in the hallway, looking a bit tired but not obviously injured. He doesn’t act like he’s being chased by police or an angry mark’s goons. He looks like he’s just coming home after a long day at work, which is _impossible_ ; Arthur should be in fucking Paraguay right now. Instead he’s in their apartment, shaking a stray leaf off his scarf (the one Eames knit him in January, just because Arthur said he doesn’t like handknits and Eames has never shied away from a challenge) and inspecting a stain on his jacket.

“Arthur,” Eames blurts out, suddenly incredibly aware of his nakedness. He wonders if he fell asleep in the bath and is actually dreaming; of course he doesn’t have his totem on him to check. “You’re… here.”

Arthur looks up at him and laughs. His expression is so genuinely fond and happy that Eames feels a bit dizzy. “Yeah, I am. Sorry for sneaking in, I thought you might be asleep already. Apparently not.”

“No,” Eames replies, haphazardly throwing his gun on the sofa on his way to the door. “I was in the bath.” He finally makes it close enough to touch Arthur, and wraps his arms around him.

“Yeah, I can see that,” Arthur says into his shoulder. “A hot, buff, tattooed man covered in bubbles wasn’t something I expected to see today.”

“I didn’t expect to see you at all,” Eames counters. “I was wallowing in self-pity when I heard the door, and modesty isn’t exactly a priority when you think someone’s trying to shank you.”

Eames’s whole body shakes with the force of Arthur’s snort. “Modesty is _never_ a priority with you. You’ve probably been waiting your entire life to walk around naked and covered in bubbles.”

“Shut it,” Eames says with a laugh, and they both do, breathing each other in and enjoying the warmth of a familiar body.

After a quiet minute, Arthur sighs. “You smell like strawberry essence. Also, I’m pretty sure your bubbles have ruined my suit.”

Eames laughs again, feeling giddy in a way that he knows has very little to do with champagne. “Sorry, but I’m really not the least bit sorry.” He pulls back just enough to finally, _finally_ kiss Arthur.

“Me neither,” Arthur mumbles into Eames’s mouth. “Is there room in the bath for one more? I’ve got thirteen hours before I need to get back to the airport.”

“Definitely,” Eames replies, and takes Arthur’s hand. Maybe there’s some hope for this Christmas after all.


End file.
